


I Don't Need You to Like Me

by Ranowa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Child Abuse, Gen, John Watson is a Good Friend, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Paternal Greg Lestrade, Prompt Fill, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock is a good friend too but shows it in odd ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa
Summary: Greg's introduction to child abuse cases is a small, surly child with a broken arm named John Watson... and the even smaller, nonverbal boy that won't leave his side.The smaller, nonverbal boy named William Holmes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 289
Collections: Neuroatypical!Sherlock





	I Don't Need You to Like Me

**Author's Note:**

> *posts without author's note like a dummy*
> 
> At least partially a prompt fill. I REALLY struggle with writing kids, so while I worked it to be as close to the prompt as I could, there's only so much molding I could do! Prompt:  
> "[H]ow would you feel about writing a child!lock fic in which Sherlock goes to the hospital for whatever reason, Mycroft is a protective big brother, and John is also at the hospital for his own reason, asking the doctors questions and whatnot."
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, anonymous!

This was not what Greg had wanted for his first real case.

He wasn't a fan, of child abuse cases. Well, he hardly knew for sure- he'd never _done one_ , before. But it took a special kind of officer, to be good at this, and Greg knew that he wasn't it. He wanted straight homicides. He wanted violent crimes. He wanted...

What he wanted was just about anything but the kids. God, not the poor kids.

So when his supervisor took one look at the case file and relegated him to the sidelines, he really didn't mind. He probably should've. This was his first real case, and he wanted to _help,_ to prove himself.

But what he really wanted to do was prove himself on something less... fragile.

Not the two fidgeting children sitting there together, withdrawn and unwilling to meet his eyes and so, so _small._

Two boys. One tense and angry, his arm in a cast and almost hidden by a blue jumper two sizes too big. He kicked his feet in the plastic chair and glared straight downwards, sulking there under his own personal stormcloud and clearly unwilling to come out. There was a dark swelling around his lip that was the unmistakeable mark of a fist.

The other boy was every bit the opposite, and just as alarming as the first.

He had ignored the whole array of various places to sit down to just fold himself up on the floor, instead, cross-legged as close to the corner as he could get. This boy, thank god, did not seem to have any visible injuries. Not even so much as a single bruise. But his head was down, a mop of lank brown curls hiding his face from view, and all that was left for Greg to see was his scrawny, milk-pale body, frozen as a marble statue.

In his lap was a red wool jumper, balled up tight and clutched in both hands. Greg realised, with a pang in his stomach, it looked almost like a teddy bear.

Both boys looked utterly miserable.

Greg _really_ did not like child abuse cases.

"Sorry," he said, as a way of introduction. For all the cheer he tried forcing into his voice, neither one of them so much as responded. John glared on at the table, and the other boy just kept holding his solo march into sheer despondency."Think I just need to clear up a paperwork snafu, first- the file we got for these interviews only had two of you in it! John and Harriet Watson." He crossed the room to crouch down by the skinny one, another smile wasted on his still downturned head. "Looks like it was missing you, lad. What's your name?"

The boy simply continued fidgeting with his red jumper. He did not look up even once.

This entire thing was a dammed farce. The bright colors of the walls, the red and blue plastic chairs, the forcibly cheerful posters of rainbows and sunshine, the scattered toys of crayons and dolls, and Greg sitting there, crouching uselessly and smiling dumbly at the top of the boy's head. Everything was trying to scream _happy_ and _normal_ when it just so obviously wasn't, and Greg didn't know what he was supposed to do.

It was the blond, still kicking his feet and scowling behind his back, who spoke up.

"That's William. And he's not my brother."

Greg blinked.

"He doesn't talk," the boy went on. He looked up for the first time with eyes that were surly and dark blue, like stormclouds. They were dark with an anger there that made Greg's stomach sink, because Christ, that was just _wrong,_ coming from a child that small. "He follows me around a lot. But he's not related to us."

The dark haired boy, William, continued to fidget with the red jumper. If he was even listening at all, he gave no sign.

"...Oh. Well, then." Greg hesitated, scratching his head. "I suppose that's fine? Yeah, yeah, that's- fine." What, was Greg supposed to just kick him out? When he was already just sitting there on the floor, looking almost like a kicked puppy?

Greg steeled himself, willing his nerves to settle, and made himself re-face the boys with a second smile.

"It's nice to meet you, William. John." Greg didn't even bother trying for a handshake with the former, instead crossing back to sit down with the more talkative latter. "I'm Greg. I'm a police officer, and my supervisor and I are going to be helping you and Harriet out for the next couple weeks."

John glared at the table. William stared at his lap.

Greg's next cough was so awkward, he just about wanted to evaporate on the spot.

"...So. Uh." He chewed on the inside of his cheek, feeling wrong-footed and ill at ease and desperately uncomfortable. _Build a rapport with him_ , his supervisor had said. Just strike up a conversation. Like it was that simple! How was he supposed to do that if the kids wouldn't even talk to him? "What's your favorite subject in school, John? I was a history buff, myself, but my niece loves science."

John swung his legs short legs again, sticking out his lower lip. It was, Greg noted, swollen. "I like science." He fidgeted. "What about William?"

"William?"

John nodded again, gaze flickering between the tabletop and Greg. "You said you're here for me and Harry. Can you be here for William, too?"

"That's... well, I'd love to, lad. But somebody else is already helping him out, yeah?" He tried for another smile, glancing between the two boys. "We want to be all focused on you."

"We're fine," John said. The deflection was instant, almost a bouncing knee's reflex, and the look on his face was a poked hornet's nest. "Harry and I are fine."

Greg clenched his jaw.

Considering John Watson was sitting there with a broken arm and a split lip, and his sister was in the next room already being interviewed by the police? No, actually. They weren't fine at all.

But Greg didn't need to point this out, because William already was.

The boy didn't _say anything,_ no. But he looked up, for the very first time. He lifted his head and he stared at John with narrowed eyes, strikingly blue, and now Greg could see his earlier assumption had been incorrect- the boy was definitely listening. The boy _definitely_ understood.

His little face said _come off it._ His face said _please._ His face said _who do you think you're fooling?_

But he didn't actually _say_ anything, and the instant he caught Greg looking, he ducked his head back down and kept silent.

So the boy _was_ listening.

But Greg had also meant what he'd said earlier- he was here for John and his sister. William's case was assigned to somebody else. So Greg left the boy alone, and instead turned his attention back to little John: still downtrodden and angry, now scratching at the red plastic of the table. It was cheap and flaked under his thumb, sharp little furrows scratched into the already marked table.

"You know, John. You've got a broken arm. That's not fine." Greg waited a moment, trying to bait him into volunteering the information. The boy only scratched harder. "How'd you hurt your arm, sunshine?"

John kept his eyes averted. "Fell," he said shortly. He fidgeted again, then reverted his attention to his broken arm, instead, now scratching at the fingernails that just barely escaped from the cast. "Mum fell too. She said she's okay."

Elizabeth Watson: mother to John and Harriet Watson. Currently in hospital with a concussion and two broken ribs, and not for the first time this year. They were headed there next.

Had Greg mentioned yet, just how much he didn't want to have this case?

"Well, looking at your files- you all seem to fall quite a lot, John." Four hospitalizations for Mrs. Watson in the past year alone, and two A&E trips for John. This was John's first broken bone. It wouldn't be the last. "That's why we're here, you know. We just want to help you out however we can. Even if that's only by... making you fall... er... less."

Dead silence.

Greg gulped, his face warming by the second. He'd like to evaporate on the spot now, please.

Mercifully, John was still staring downwards, more occupied with pretending he did not exist than reacting to Greg's- god, whatever _that_ had been. So he didn't have to be looked at with the sheer disbelief and incredulity that that statement deserved.

Until William took notice for the second time.

William's head jerked upright. This time definitely staring at him right at him, just in time to catch the tail end of his suitably lame grimace of an awkward smile. He looked at him silently, this time his expressive face turned on him; _what are you, an idiot?_

Then, back down to the red jumper.

Seriously, that kid was creepy.

"So... John." Third try was the charm, right? "Do you think there's anything we could do? To, uh... help you with that?" _Oh,_ he was bad at this.

"No." John pouted a moment longer, still trying to scratch under his cast. He looked a cross between completely miserable, and completely pissed off. "You should help William instead."

Greg bit back another sigh. "Well, I would. Really- but he's got someone else helping him, remember? I'm just here for-"

"Nobody's been here to talk to him," John forged on, talking over him as if he hadn't said anything at all. "Not at all. Er... he doesn't _talk,_ yeah, but- nobody's come here _for_ him, is what I mean. He's been with me this whole time since he got here on Sunday. _Nobody,"_ he said pointedly, staring up at Greg with eyes that struck him in the stomach. _Definitely_ an accusation. "So... you should."

Greg didn't even try to hold back his next almost-groan. This was clearly going to head nowhere, then. John didn't want to talk to them, and Greg couldn't very well make him. Certainly not with William in the room, a ready and welcome distraction at every turn.

Greg sat back to weigh his options, still glancing between the two boys. Like this, it definitely was going nowhere. But his job wasn't to do anything but build a rapport with John. His supervisor was going to conduct the actual interview once he was done with Harry. He clearly wasn't going to get any answers like this, yes, but right now he wasn't even managing the bare minimum of getting a conversation going.

Well, John obviously cared about William- and William, in his own strange, little way, cared about John. Maybe he could use that to his advantage.

"All right," he gave, and smiled. "I can work with both of you, then. How's that? William, that okay with you?" Somewhat predictably, John brightened like a lightbulb while William sat motionless, so Greg forged on without forcing a reply. "William, do you want to talk about why you're here?"

He clearly did not want to talk about why he was here. He clearly did not want to talk at all. Greg tried again. "John's worried about you. I think he'd worry a whole lot less if you'd try and help us out here, yeah?"

William picked at the jumper. The poor thing was going to be a pool of stray red threads, by the end of this.

Still, nothing.

Greg held back exasperation, forcing himself to remember that William was hurt, here, too. No kid sitting in a shelter was here because their life was going great. "Come on, William- I'm sure you don't want to make John sad!"

Finally, the boy looked up.

He stared at Greg with those strange eyes, huge and round and flickering with so much under the surface and yet, still with nothing at all out loud. He opened his mouth, just a little _o,_ then snapped it shut again, looking like he'd been slapped. He shook his head, panting a bit, and suddenly yanked his hands free from the jumper to sit on them instead.

Greg stared in rising alarm. The kid looked absolutely upset, now, but still hadn't made a single sound, and now just sat there on his hands, for some reason, rocking gently with his knees pulled to his chest and his face still resting in the jumper. Maybe he actually _couldn't_ talk. His throat didn't have any bruises on it, not that he could see from here, but that didn't mean there couldn't be something wrong.

Hell, whether there was a physical problem or not, something was _obviously_ wrong. And while John didn't want to talk to him about the Watsons, maybe William _did_ need someone to talk to him about _his_ problems.

"You think you can hang on for a moment for me, sunshine?" he asked, addressing John now. "I think I need to go talk to some grown-ups outside for a minute. Can you look after William for a bit, for me?"

John brightened again immediately, confirming Greg's previous suspicion. John was hurt and scared and uncomfortable with the attention on himself... and totally at ease with it settled down on William. He liked having the distraction and responsibility of being asked to look after him.

This was his way in.

Greg excused himself immediately into out into the hall, leaving prickly John and silent William to themselves, and wishing badly for a cigarette.

The case worker from before had already scurried off, but one of the shelter's staffers was still waiting on him, pen between her teeth and pink nails rapping a cadence on her thigh. Greg made a beeline for her the second he was out the door.

"Oh? Done already?" She started to reach for the case file, standing up. "How'd it go?"

"Not finished, actually, no. Almost, just,checking up on something- what do you know about that other boy, waiting with John? William?" Greg nodded back to the see-through window, gesturing inside the child's interview room to where John had already deserted the table, now sitting side-by-side with William on the floor. "John said his name is William. I couldn't get the poor kid to talk."

The staffer, Linda, shook her head. "Yeah, that's William." She patted his arm, giving him a sympathetic grimace. "Don't feel bad. None of us have been able to get a word out of him, either."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Oh, that's anyone's guess. Sometimes you get kids like that, you know? They just don't talk. Sometimes they're trying to get attention. Sometimes they're scared." Linda paused, glancing at him in silent speculation, her eyes narrowed. "Between you and me, I think this one's the former. There's not a mark on him."

Greg decided he didn't very much like Linda.

"...Right. Well. I'd appreciate a look at his case file, please."

"So would I, Constable."

"You-" Greg did a double-take, looking back at her in surprise. "What does that mean?"

"Means none of us have seen his file. It doesn't exist." She pursed her lips in irritation, still flicking her pen between her thumbs. "William Holmes. Whoever his parents are, whoever's dealing with this case, it's way above our paygrade. His file got yanked two hours after he turned up here and nobody from your office ever showed up."

Greg stared back into the room, his alarm rising further. Did no one even know who this poor child was? The way John had told it, he'd just been floating about the place, nonverbal and twitchy, for three days straight, now. And- that was it? Was that the end of the story? No file, no case worker, no investigation from his office? Did no one even _care?_

At the look on his face, Linda finally softened, a little, apparently realising just how callous her words came across as. "It's not as if we haven't tried to talk to him," she cajoled, trying to mollify him. "We really have. We try with _everyone._ He just hasn't responded." She hesitated, casting a quick, conspiratorial look about the deserted hallway, then lowered her voice despite the abscence of anyone else present to overhear. "If it helps, I was actually here when he got dropped off. I don't think his situation's anything... violent. Not like John."

"Well, _something's_ wrong with him."

"Yeah. Maybe." She shrugged, glancing back into the interview room. "He showed up with an older lady, I'd guess it was his mum. Both of them were real fancy, like they'd just walked out of a party at Buckingham Palace, but _William_ was the one screaming and hitting things, not her. She told us _he's your problem, now,_ and drove back off so quickly we barely got his name."

"What-" Greg stammered, aghast. "Can you even _do that?_ Just drop your own kid off like a box of clothes?!"

"If your last names is Holmes, you can," she sighed. "Apparently."

Linda went back to picking at her nails, radiating disinterest if not downright apathy. "That's why he likes John so much. John got him to stop _crying,_ thank god, though I've got no idea what he said to him. William's stuck to him like a burr ever since." She said nothing else, and Greg, a knot forming in his stomach, had to yank himself away before his temper snapped and he said something he might regret.

He turned back into the interview room, instead, and looked down at the two boys that had been left alone.

They looked better than before. William had stopped rocking and returned his focus to the red jumper, the very end of one of the wool sleeves now stuck in his mouth. He still wasn't talking, but the pair were playing together with one of the room's toys. Well... playing was one way of putting it, actually. It looked like William had dismantled the entire thing, and was now wordlessly showing John had it worked.

Like this, they just looked like two normal kids. ...slightly odd kids. One with his arm in a cast and the other with a bit of wool in his mouth, sure, but they were just _kids,_ for god's sake. Small and uncooperative, and all but ignored because of it. And who could blame them? Who _would_ be cooperative, when John had so clearly just been smacked around by someone who was supposed to take care of him, and William had... what, exactly?

Just been given up? By someone who was supposed to love him unconditionally, and instead just dropped him off on the kerb like a newborn on a church's doorstep?

Greg gritted his teeth again. He felt sick to his stomach.

John was hurt on the outside. That much was obvious. What was harder to see was that he was hurt on the inside, too. He refused to admit to it, and seemed to think he was doing a good job at hiding it, but it was brazenly obvious to anyone who gave him more than a passing glance. He took so well to looking after William because that was just what he had to do at home. he looked after his baby sister, he looked after his mum, and it may've actually been cute if John wasn't just ten years old and the things he was worried about weren't his father's fists. _Christ,_ he was so tiny.

And William?

William may not have been hurt on the outside. And this may have been Greg's first time working with kids. But somehow, he figured if a little kid was so _desperate_ to be looked af he'd glue himself to the first person that so much as tried, even if that first person happened to be a little boy with an arm in a cast and angry as a hornet's nest? Then there was a problem.

And that problem _wasn't_ that the kid was just a brat.

"If you want to help him, that's- that's nice. Really. It is." Linda said quietly, after a long stretch of silence. Clearly, she'd picked up on the fact that he didn't share her complete lack of concern. "He could probably use it. But most of the kids we get through here are like John, Constable. If you want to look after every sad and probably neglected kid in London, then have it. But John's the fourth one we've gotten this week who has broken bones. I don't have room in my case load for one that's decided he doesn't want to talk and refuses to eat anything except peanut butter out of the jar."

Greg gritted his teeth again, seething in his throat. He still wanted to hit something.

Hell, some part of him still wanted to just forget about the case files completely, and just go in there, haul up both the boys by their hands, and take them home for his wife to fix them a good, home-cooked meal.

But next to the self-righteous confidence now slithered in a miserable seed of doubt.

He was here on John's case. Not William's. He was here, investigating John's case, for the two weeks he'd been assigned under his current supervisor for, and the only reason at all he'd found William in the first place was because he wasn't yet given any responsibility above babysitting duty.

Something told him his supervisor wasn't going to be very happy if he handed him a second, evidently non-existent case file, this for an impossible to prove and even more impossible to prosecute case of- what? Neglect?

And a case of a child with _very_ politically powerful parents, at that.

Greg was supposed to be here for the family that had just spent their weekend getting knocked around bloody. This was a problem he could actually do something about. By the sound of things, it was burgeoning career suicide to even ask about doing something for little William's.

As if on cue, the door across the hall opened, and Greg turned around just in time to see Harriet Watson scurry back outside, chalk-white and pigtails bouncing. She completely ignored him, just like her brother, but Linda flipped a switch, and was joining her with her conversation with Greg put right to a halt. "There you are. Come on with me, love, I'll take you back to your room."

"What about John?"

"John'll be right after you, Harry, give him just a few minutes, okay?" Linda led her on down the hallway holding her hand, moving on from what had to have been an absolutely horrible interview for her without a second thought. "You want to try looking for a snack? I bet you're hungry..."

Greg looked back into his own interview room, his shoulders sagging. He looked especially at William, guiding John silently through the disassembly of a second toy.

"Sorry, lad," he sighed.

Then, he glued on a miserable smile of his own, and strode right back into the room.

"Hey, you two. Good news- I looked a little bit into William's case!" He said this to John, as William himself was still refusing to look at him. Now, after what he'd just found out? He couldn't even blame him. "And I've got more good news. John, your sister just finished up talking to my supervisor, and now it's your turn. Just a few quick questions, and then we'll be done for the day. How's that?" He stopped for a moment, weighing and choosing his next words very, very carefully. "I'll stay with William while you're gone. I'll be seeing what I can do to help him, and it'll be thanks to you that I'm able to. You should try and do the same for yourself."

John sat silently in answer, frowning and averting his eyes away. He'd gone back to fidgeting with his cast, now trying to scratch underneath it with part of one of the disassembled toys, looking increasingly uncomfortable the entire time. Perhaps that was why William had taken it apart in the first place.

But Greg knew he had him hooked. It was dishonest, yes. But telling him he'd be working with William- that John would be _helping_ William, if he just agreed to step out, just for a few minutes- was all he'd needed to hear.

"...you'll be okay?" John murmured, nudging a shoulder against William's. "For a few minutes?"

William gave a stiff nod. Still, without so much as looking at him or Greg. He sucked again on the sleeve.

John hesitated again, obviously torn. But when William did not make any move to stop him, he took a deep breath and nodded to himself, gathering strength. He muttered something to William's ear, then pushed right to his feet, casted arm hugged to his chest and his little face harsh and angry as a live bonfire.

"Be nice to him," he warned. "I'll know if you're not."

Little John Watson then strode straight on past him, and marched into the hall without another word.

Greg had just been threatened by an already beaten up ten year old boy, and now was left alone with a nonverbal and miserable child that had just been entrusted to him- and felt about as awful and useless as was humanly possible.

He couldn't handle the kids.

"You're an idiot."

Greg just about jumped out of his skin.

 _What_ the _hell?_

William lifted his head to stare right at him, eyes open wide and face utterly transformed. He looked like an entirely different person. "You," William snapped again, "are an _idiot."_ He yanked upright and left his corner for the first time, pacing forward to stand toe to toe with Greg and stare up at him with striking, dangerous eyes, as blue and bright as the sky. "John's lying to you. Harry probably just lied to your supervisor now, and John's going to do the same."

"What..." Greg spluttered. He just about fell over from the sheer shock of it. "What happened to the whole cat got your tongue bit?! Are you-"

"I'm fine," William sniffed dismissively, rolling his eyes like Greg had just asked him if the sky was blue. "John's not. His father broke his arm, and it's not for the first time. He's not going to tell you, because he's been convinced he shouldn't. That it's... safer, for some reason? I'm not quite sure, yet. I suspect his mother-"

"Hang on, hang on-" Greg near stumbled back over to William, reaching for his previously abandoned notepad. "Did John tell you this? William, John needs to tell _me,_ not-"

"No, of course not! I deduced it for myself. _Obviously._ As I was saying." William sat back down himself, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in intense speculation. He enfolded one hand back in the red jumper again, wrapping it between his thumb and forefinger, around and around and around. "The father earns the money, most likely. The mother's told John and Harry they can't leave, they won't be able to survive. Alternatively, it's a threat from the father to keep his mouth shut. _Probably_ because he's tried telling the police before but you didn't do anything about it, and he got hurt for it."

Greg gaped, utterly and completely dumbstruck.

William stared up at him with those shocking eyes. Clearly demanding an instant response and action, which was a bit unfortunate, because Greg honestly had no idea what to say.

The boy's patience was short as his newfound tongue, however. After only a tiny few seconds of waiting, he huffed again, his face re-transformed, this time into a cast of complete dismissal. "Oh, never mind, you're obviously an idiot. Let _me_ speak to your supervisor."

"Now- now just wait a moment-" Greg had no idea what he was supposed to say; he barely had an idea what was going on. One moment William was a neglected and scared child that needed help, and the next he'd found his words and by god he was going to use them. "How do you know all this? I can't do anything just based on what you say. _John_ needs to be the one to speak up, I can't-."

"And I've just told you why he won't! Honestly, Constable, don't you _listen?"_ He huffed again, looking positively disgusted. "The evidence is all right in front of you, but you don't _see._ Nobody ever _observes,_ nobody ever _listens,_ you just sit there and passively absorb like some form of parasitic sponge! You- you're all _idiots!"_

Greg spent another few moments staring in dumb, empty-headed shock. The about-face was so abrupt he almost felt dizzy.

What the hell was he supposed to do with this?

"...well, then," he coughed, somewhat pathetically. Very pathetically. Seriously, what was he supposed to say? "I'll just, um... I'll talk to John, again, shall I?"

William scoffed under his breath."That's hardly necessary, I think. I've already told you everything you need to know." He kicked his legs himself, a grimace twitching across his pale, angular face, then re-gripped the jumper in his lap with such vehemence it nearly tore in two. "You should focus your efforts on the mother. _She's_ the one telling John and Harry to lie. Hopefully you'll try speaking to her with more planning and competence than you did with John."

"Well, you're just a bright little ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

William's mouth twitched again. "Don't be ridiculous." But he looked away, still white as a sheet and wilting even paler under his dark shock of hair, and now sat tense and stiff as a statute. Solid as a rock, yes... but if tipped over just right, he'd break.

For the first time, Greg caught a glimpse of the silent little boy from before. The one who had clearly been told so many enough times already that he was just inherently unpleasant to be around, that he'd long ago given up not believing it.

Greg took a deep breath, and walked himself back, step by step.

William had been his way in to John, yes.

Maybe John was his way in to William.

"If you're really wanting to help John, then you should try talking to him with me. You know- an actual conversation? The way friends do?"

William pulled even more into himself, his expression brittle. "I don't have friends." He said it as just a simple fact, as much of a heartless truth as the grass was green and the sky was blue, his eyes hard as glass. Greg's heart throbbed. "People don't like me. They start to, and then I start talking and they realise what's wrong with me. John won't- people... don't... like me."

"That's not-"

"But I don't care if _you_ like me," William insisted, clenching his jaw. "It's okay- I know you don't. I don't need you to like me. I just need you to listen to me."

 _Christ,_ Greg thought. His heart throbbed again. For such a prickly, irascible ball of insults, he now just wanted to hug him.

William didn't care if Greg liked him or not, no. That was why he was talking to him right now.

And that was why he hadn't said a word, ever since meeting John.

Because he didn't care if Greg liked him...

But he did care that John _did._

"There's... there's nothing wrong with you, William."

The boy grinned a little, something loose and bright and alltogether unsettling. His eyes and teeth sparked with amusement, and Greg's stomach sank.

"That's not _funny_ , William. That's not funny at all. There's..." He stopped, trying to find the right words. _You're normal_ would probably get him laughed at again, and this time, deservedly. "You're _different,_ I guess. Sure. But not- _wrong."_

William rolled his eyes a second time, but this time kept his mouth shut. He glared at the opposite wall again, his little shoulders hunched up and his fingers wrung tighter into the jumper, and looked acutely miserable.

Greg wouldn't mind smacking the boy's mother across the face. Or _whoever it was_ that had just thrown a kid surely not even ten years old out of his home, and had him so convinced he was intolerable he didn't even know how to speak to his only friend.

Striking civilians who hadn't (technically) committed any crimes wasn't actually part of the job description, however. And more important than that, actually wouldn't help his current situation at all. Which was William, sitting right there, as dejected as a... as a boy genius with a quick mouth and sharp tongue could look.

"You should talk to John," Greg said solidly, meeting his eyes. William was clearly smart enough to not need to be talked to like a child. Or at least not treated like he couldn't understand. "You should... talk, period. Maybe some people'll decide they don't like you, right out of the gate, but that happens to all of us, you know? Those people are idiots, and it sounds like you don't like idiots. But I don't think John's an idiot, and neither do you."

William said nothing, his clear eyes still turned away and ice-cold. He hardly looked convinced in the slightest, and somehow, Greg doubted a five-minute pep talk that he was mostly stripping from self-help quotes on the tube would actually be all that effective.

He just had to say _something._

Even if, from the look on his face, it hadn't been anywhere near enough.

"Sherlock."

Greg and William both flinched.

Greg got to his his feet immediately, standing in the way of William as he turned back to see someone new, standing just in the doorway to the interview room. Definitely not an employee of social services, by the glossy three-piece suit and shined shoes all the way down to the gleam of the _pocket chain,_ for god's sake. Who on earth was this, now? He looked about as uppity as could be, ginger hair slicked back and an umbrella dangled over one arm, and his gaze slide on straight past Greg as if he was nothing more than an inanimate object.

William shot to his feet as if on command, and made a beeline around Greg straight for the man without hesitation.

"Sherlock," the man said again. He dropped down low, nudging the boy's face this way and that as if to ensure that he wasn't hurt. He opened his mouth, looking pale and unreadable, and his throat moved in an audible swallow _"Tout va bien?"_

William jerked his head in a tiny, stilted nod. _"Oui. Oui."_

"Good. Sherlock-"

 _"_ I... I tried what you said. I tried not to upset her this time, Mycroft! I did what you told me to! But- but-"

"Words, Sherlock." The man- _Mycroft?_ What kind of a name was that? Mycroft frowned, tugging the end of the jumper's sleeve out from where it had ended up in the boy's mouth again. "Is this yours?"

He shook his head, mumbling, "John's." Mycroft looked increasingly unhappy, but didn't get the chance to question further, William forging on straight ahead and clinging desperately to Mycroft's hand. "She had one of her dreadful events again, Mycroft, full of those _idiots._ I told you, they're all so noisy, and they smell like the garden and I _hate it._ I can't _think_ with them there! I tried to do what you said but it didn't _work,_ and she wouldn't let me leave, and it was- I couldn't-"

"Words, Sherlock," Mycroft chided again, his voice heavy. "You had a meltdown."

The boy- William? _Sherlock?-_ sniffed once, tiny and miserable. He tilted his head up and down in another rapidfire nod.

Greg had no idea what was going on. He certainly didn't know what a meltdown was, or why it seemed to have so much significance for the two- it made it sound like he'd just thrown a temper tantrum, when it was abundantly clear that was not the case. But Sherlock sniffed again and Mycroft heaved a long sigh, gently cuffing a hand against his ear. "Shush," he said. "It's not your fault, brother mine. I know you tried."

Sherlock shook his head, letting loose a volley of increasingly upset French. Greg couldn't catch a word, but Mycroft just nodded again and cuffed his ear again, his expression grave. "Shush," he said again. "We've talked about this. Remember? This happens because of who we are. There's nothing you can do to stop it."

 _"You_ do. You're _perfect,"_ Sherlock hissed, suddenly venomous. "You do _everything!"_

"Sherlock-"

"Mummy says so. I upset her and you're _perfect."_

 _"Sherlock,"_ Mycroft sighed again. The boy sounded perilously close to tears, now, and Mycroft didn't sound very well-equipped to deal wit it himself. "Not here. _Please._ Let me-" He stopped short, narrowed eyes flickering over Sherlock's shoulder to meet Greg's. His expression shifted immediately, openness shoved back and away behind a cold mask. "Sherlock, _qui-?"_

Sherlock's answer was another low exchange of rapid French, this one that went on for a few sentences. Greg was pretty sure he heard his own name, Scotland Yard, and something that sounded suspiciously like _idiot._

Well, then.

Mycroft nodded and rose back up, tugging his suit jacket straight. "Go wait at the car, Sherlock."

"No! I want-"

"Do you want to go home now or not?"

Sherlock scowled mightily, looking for all the world like he just might kick Mycroft in the shin. Another level look from Mycroft had him corralled, just barely, but the look on his face and his wet eyes was a far cry from peaceful.

"Pillock," he muttered. No attempt was made whatsoever to lower his voice so Greg couldn't hear.

Then, he slipped out of the room without a backwards glance.

"What the hell... Sherlock! Wait!" Greg reached for him, but his outstretched hand was left hanging as the boy vanished around the corner, and he was left to stare in disbelief at Mycroft instead. "Who exactly do you think you are? You can't just leave with him!"

"Hm." Mycroft's cold, little smile twitched, that same manner of smug assuredness that Sherlock's had played with. Now he saw where he got it from. "Constable..."

"Lestrade," Greg snapped. "I'm the officer on Sherlock's case."

"Hm," Mycroft murmured again. "No. You're not."

"I'm... w-well- well, someone _should_ be! He's-" He leaned around Mycroft again, halfway expecting the boy to come back into the room, any second now. Who on earth were these people? "You can't just take Sherlock home after this. There needs to be an investigation! I don't know what- what political favours you carry, or what influence you think you have, but you can't just make this go away!"

Mycroft tsked his tongue, a quiet, impatient little noise, swinging the umbrella from hand to hand. He looked as if he considered Greg as no more than a bothersome fly. "There is no _this,_ Constable Lestrade. It's already, as you say, gone away."

"But he's-"

"Constable," he sighed again. "Our mother is a woman who stringently believes children are to be seen and not heard, and Sherlock is simply a child struggles very stridently with this expectation. Through no fault of his own." He gave a small, sly smile, all but tipping his non-existent hat. "Of course, if you insist on speaking with our mother anyway, you would currently find her in attendance at an event in Buckingham Palace. I'm sure the prince of Wales would love to hear your explanation for why you're interrupting his party."

Greg gritted his teeth, forced into silence. He seethed as wordlessly as Sherlock, the puzzle pieces slotting into place, each more rage-inducing than the last.

This wasn't fair. Sherlock deserved someone looking out for him just as much as John did, no matter how well-connected his _mother_ was. To use the term _very_ fucking loosely. This wasn't- this was not _fair._

But, while he may have been brand new at this job, even he knew that going after a case with this many red flags was a non-starter.

The sickened sense of injustice must have shown on his face, because Mycroft softened, after a moment, the smug little smirk fading in place of something closer to grief. He cleared his throat, umbrella given another swing, and offered up what was just maybe an attempt at a smile. "You'll be a good officer, I think. Scotland Yard will be lucky to have you."

"Oh, really."

"Yes," the man said. "They'll only be lucky to have you, however, if you're smart enough to recognise when the fish you're going after is so big it's actually a shark."

The sentiment was as clear as the sky on a summer day.

_Know when you've been beaten._

Greg's building anger rose another notch.

For a moment, still, all he could see was John Watson, sitting on the floor with a casted on arm, and _Sherlock_ Holmes sitting beside him, mute and tucked into himself and pale as the eggshell paint on the walls.

He'd still like to smack Sherlock's mother. And now, he'd _really_ like to smack Mycroft Holmes.

And he could do nothing but stand there, and watch them go.

Mycroft lingered at the door, his ridiculously shined shoes half in the room, half out. He gave Greg another speculative glance, plucking long fingers at the knot of his tie, and something on his face shifted again. For the first time, he looked at him, and was actually apologetic. "Your concern is noted. And... appreciated. It might help you to know that Sherlock really is being looked after, even if it is not by our mother."

"I'm sure."

"You should be. I _do not_ take my little brother's welfare lightly, Constable Lestrade." He paused another moment, his face voice gone cold as ice. "However. Sherlock my did seem extremely concerned about one... John Watson, I believe. By his tell of things, he is _not_ being looked after." He smiled in a flash of white teeth. "Perhaps my office could do something to help you with that."

Greg clenched his fists. "As a thank-you for me looking the other way on Sherlock?"

"Heavens, no. You watch too many movies, Constable." Mycroft tilted his head again, his eyes bright. "Sherlock simply took a liking to John. I'd be lending my office's assistance on his account. And John's I suppose- I figure he could use it."

"And what exactly is it that _your office_ does, Mycroft?"

The man's smile turned even slicker, like a snake shedding its skin. "Good day, Constable Lestrade."

The older Holmes was out the door in the same manner was his younger brother before him. Greg, once again, was left behind.

Alone in the interview room with several dismantled toy cars, and one nearly shredded, sucked-upon wooly red jumper.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome and always appreciated! Stay healthy! <3
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/post/616700792476467200/hello-i-absolutely-adore-all-of-your-writing-and) (I've got lots of extra thoughts about this one, if you want to see them!)


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